Where the River Flows Bright
by Morning Dew
Summary: REVAMPED! Long after the strike, a grisly conflict between newsboys and factory workers unleashes. Amid the animosity, a brother and sister establish their new home in Brooklyn, only to further fuel the tension when each joins opposite sides of the war.
1. New Beginnings

DISCLAIMER: No, the newsies aren't mine, kids. For those of you who didn't know, though I doubt that's the case if you're reading this story, the newsies actually belong to DISNEY! *dramatic music* Surprise! ^_^ However, I do own the following characters: Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Lucas Conlon (Runner), Cody, Aunt Bethany, Becker Princeton, and Maverick O'Malley. 

A.N.: Well, here we go again! Another long story. Enjoy the Show! 

~*Where the River Flows Bright*~

Patron and Dewey Rembrandt were the type of siblings that were closer to each other than the invisible links that bind a lover to her soul mate, for they rarely bickered over petty matters, never entertained rivalry between themselves, never lied to or betrayed one another, and always looked out for and defended each other with a loyalty that is often hard to find in the drudgery of life. 

This particular spring they stood in the middle of hordes of comers and goers at the Manhattan train yards, watching the chaos all about them with wide and confused eyes. There were mothers trying to soothe their crying babies with melodic lullabies or back rubs, young children running wildly about playing chase-though some were busy shedding tears for they had become lost, and men arguing with the station employees over misplaced luggage. 

There were peddlers hawking details of the products they sold, and vendors trying to win over the travelers' hunger with the smells of pretzels, croissants, and other baked goods that'd make any righteous man want to turn to theft just this once. A group of nuns stood off to one side, welcoming the newcomers to the state where one could make his dreams a reality, passing out cards that let each individual know he was loved, if not by man then by a forgotten God. The sight of the women filled Dewey with a painful nostalgia she'd always suffer from thereafter, and as she passed them by, she squeezed the crucifix she held in one hand so hard it drew a droplet of blood from her sensitive palms, a red tear shed for the home she had left behind. 

Patron was oblivious to his sister's self-infliction. The environment in which he suddenly found himself was overwhelming! It reminded him of a disorderly three-ring circus that lacked any structure and had never known the word 'civilization'. The people before him came from all walks of life; there were Irishmen talking in their rough brogue, Jewish leaders wearing their traditional skullcaps, gypsies dressed in their elaborate linens of cotton and silk, and there once went a couple exchanging words of love in heavy French accents. Then there were the class differences! The boy was surprised to see within the mass of New Yorkers not only the proud and wealthy, but also the humble poor with their threadbare clothing and simple knapsacks. A once white canvas now dotted with an array of colors that ranged from dull shades of brown and grey to vibrant yellows, reds, and blues. 

He reached for Dewey's hand, who by now had tucked her crucifix into the pocket of her sweater, and led her through the crowds to an area less populated where they could gather their bearings and perhaps even get a word of where exactly they were. The girl cast one last glance at the locomotive that had driven her countless miles from her home in New Jersey and frowned. 

The smoke that arose from its engine momentarily clouded the present and for a swift second she was carried away to better times in which her father would take her to the train tracks back home during their leisure time. They would drop pennies on the iron rails and once the locomotive came and went, would jump onto the tracks and collect the smoothly flattened coins, marveling at the wonder of it all. Mother deemed them crazy; she laughed at the memory.

"Miss, a pretty flower for a pretty lady?"

Dewey was wrenched from the reverie when a kindly young man held a white rose to her as an offering. She hesitantly took it from him with the slightest smile, but the barter of kindness was disrupted when Patron snatched the flower from her and gave it back to the boy. He then tugged harder on her arm and guided her off once again. "Don't take anything from anyone. You don't know what tricks these people are working up."

"It was a simple flower," said she in protest. "I doubt there were other intentions involved."

"You also doubted the need to label your luggage back in New Jersey." They grinned at each other. Too burdened by her desolation to write out a tag for her suitcase at the departure station, Dewey had simply thrown her chest of possessions into a cart of luggage in hopes that it was bound for her same destination. She had no such luck. Her suitcase ended up becoming lost. A portion of all the things the girl had ever owned…lost.

Patron was benevolent enough to share his only pair of hand-warmers with her, though, and now as they walked hand in hand they each wore one wooly grey glove on their free fingers. 

A carriage pulled by horses with coats as dark as chocolate syrup and conducted by a man with a top hat rode the siblings from the vociferous clamor of the Manhattan city into downtown Brooklyn, a well-kept quiet neighborhood with towering trees on either side of the roads. At last they came unto a block of Dean Street where stood house number 204, and as Patron paid the chauffeur his fees, Dewey stood before the crème-colored stoop of the building, letting her gaze travel up its tall brick form. When hoof beats sounded off in the distance as the horses trotted away with carriage behind and her bother had joined her side, she knew it was time to start her new life.

"Ready?" he asked softly. She nodded, and they ascended the stairs to knock upon the hollow wood structure that was the door.

An Asian woman clad in a royal blue oriental dress answered with a smile and immediately identified the siblings as the ones coming to live with Mrs. Rembrandt, their elderly aunt. She held the door open for them as they carried in their bags and directed them to the second story. "She live in #2D. She talk so much 'bout you! I hope you like it here!" She waved them goodbye and climbed down the stairs to her own apartment.

Patron didn't even have to knock this time, for the door before them cracked open ever so slightly, a black and white cat scurrying out into the halls. "You hurry up, Misty," a frail voice ordered from within. The cat disappeared around a corner; Patron and Dewey shared an amused look. 

The boy stepped forward. "Uh…Aunt Bethany?"

"Who is that!" The door swung open and showed the panicked face of an ancient-looking woman, face creased with wrinkles.

"Aunt, it's me, Patron. And my sister, Dewey." 

She pushed the dark-lens glasses she wore further up the bridge of her nose and cocked her head to one side. "Patron? Dewey?" Then a gasp of realization. "Oh! Oh yes, my darlings! How could I forget? Must've slipped my mind!" She bid them entrance into the dimly-lit apartment most cordially. "Come in, come in, warm yourselves, dears!" 

"What about the cat?" Dewey looked after the small animal with a smile. She use to have so many pets back in New Jersey her home could have been called a menagerie. 

"Oh, oh, don't worry about him. He'll come on his own time, he will."

Aunt Bethany's abode seemed to be an archenemy of light. The window blinds were tightly shut and the heavy cotton draperies of each curtain pulled closed to fend off any sun's rays like a warrior's shield. The few lamps that there were about the apartment were turned off so that only the sitting room's chandelier was given chance to offer illumination, as if it were a soloist to whom attention was owed. 

The air was stuffy and smelled of cats-a great number of cats. Only a minute within and Patron already felt his sinuses flaring up. He rubbed his nose with a certain annoyance and glared at a calico kitten staring at him from atop the ivory keys of a piano.

The old woman tapped the ground with her cane and made her way into a mini-kitchen where she proceeded to warm up milk after 'feeling' for a proper pot into which she could heat the liquid. She assumed the siblings would very much like to eat a meal that consisted of more than peanuts and bread.

Dewey arched an eyebrow and leaned closer to her brother as she watched their aunt fumble about in a cabinet in search of something, even though her eyes were fixated towards the ceiling. "Is she…?"

"Blind?" he finished, knowing her well enough to step on her sentences and complete her thoughts. "It certainly seems so," he whispered back. "But don't mention it. I'm sure she's forgotten there was ever such thing as 'sight'." 

She smacked his arm playfully and they enjoyed a much needed laugh. After the early lunch, they were much too tired to recollect memories with their aunt and so the old woman showed the siblings to the room they would be sharing. 

"This was the size of the hallway closet back at the farm," said Dewey, once she was alone with her brother.

Patron shrugged. "It sure beats sleeping on the streets, though." He got up from the floor where he had been unpacking his bags and sat on the edge of the bed beside the girl. "Dewey, you can't keep comparing the way things were to the way they are now. Of course everything here's going to seem unwelcoming at first, but dwelling in the past is only going to hurt you. You have to find new things to make you happy." 

"But I don't want to find new things!" She allowed herself to fall backwards onto the mattress and exhaled a sigh in the doing. "Why couldn't we stay back at the farm? Why did those people make us come here to live with our aunt? We were just fine!"

"I suppose they thought we'd be better off with our family."

"But we had each other, Patron! We don't need anyone else; we were doing just fine on our own." There was a moment of silence between them in which they found repose in their own thoughts, wishing the circumstances had been slightly different this time or that they hadn't been altered at all. "I just don't understand why they had to go…"

He smiled down at her sadly. "And I don't think we ever will."

~*~*~*~*~

            Spot Conlon entered the Brooklyn lodging house for newsboys in a rage, his face and arms taut, sapphire eyes blazing like blue flames born from the arctic skies. He slammed the door shut behind him, the mere sound shaking the very foundations of the room, and stood glaring at his newsies, scanning through the company of street rats for a particular face. The Brooky's were silenced, some in fear, others in reverence. Their leader looked to be in one of his reprimanding moods to which a fellow newsie would undoubtedly fall prey, and it'd become second-nature to them to hold their tongues during such times.  

            "Where's Travis?" Spot asked them. Though of low volume, the force by which he'd uttered each syllable lashed at one with fierce preciseness, a reminder of who he was and what he'd do should no answer be dealt to him. 

            Some of the older boys who had been lounging about in the main room playing poker exchanged worried looks. Travis had been second in command in their borough but had been arguing with Spot for _weeks_ now. They disagreed on almost every aspect of their duties and twice already had they disgraced Brooklyn's unity with rude remarks toward each other that sooner or later had evolved into fist fights; brawls which Spot, of course, always won. Whether through mercy of the mere fatigue of human nature, no one knew, but all were grateful whenever such trivial clashes ceased, for the grotesque sight of bloodied faces and out of joint bones wasn't one welcomed to the Brooky's, as fierce a stamina as they preserved. Travis and Spot hated each other with an unbelievable fervor; it was a miracle Spot hadn't dismissed the young man yet, even more so that Travis wasn't dead already.

            "Where is 'e?" Spot queried again, emphasizing each syllable. He was obviously losing his patience for he always expected his boys to respond to orders immediately like lackeys jumping to the every beck and call of their masters, especially if those same orders came from him.

            A voice called out from the staircase as its owner plodded down the steps leisurely. Carefree and light-hearted, many were left to wonder why this individual, of all people, felt it the perfect time to break free the tensions of the atmosphere with his comical nature. "Spotty, he aint here no more. Some joiks from the factory on Smith St. swung by earlier; Travis-boy turned scab and left with 'em." 

            The boy who spoke finally descended into the main room, his features more evident in the dim lighting of the partially covered windows all about. He had golden hair that fell to his ears in roughly-textured locks and glistening green eyes to rival Spot's cyan irises. The amusement on his face was unmistakable. Wearing a lopsided grin, he leaned against a wall with crossed arms and waited for a response. They called him Runner; he was third in command of Brooklyn, but more importantly he was younger cousin to the great Brooklyn leader himself. 

            Spot cursed. He knew Travis would betray him sooner or later; it had only been a matter of time. What had begun as a harmless repartee between newsies and factory workers across New York had fastly evolved into a raging fire of animosity and utter abhorrence. What was once a childish competition between the two communities of working boys was now no less than a war, an all out siege between bitter rivals who'd stood each other's company long enough. It'd started with challenges and scathing insults muttered under one's breath, but one fist-fight there and an alley ambush weeks later had awakened a sleeping giant full of vengeance. Now it was about recruiting followers, showing strength through physical assaults, and one by one conquering the enemy's realm if only to prove to them how futile their efforts had been all the while.

            Momentarily forgetting the fury that surged through him, however, Spot looked to his boys and realized they too were awaiting some form of action from their leader. He had come in vengeful and bloodthirsty and they would not be denied a reminder of the threats he would enact if they followed Travis' footsteps. 

            "Runnah," Spot said without looking at the boy, "come 'ere." 

            Runner's grin widened as he pushed himself off the wall and hurried to his cousin. He tried to suppress his excitement but it was virtually impossible. Here was the big moment, the few minutes in which he would be promoted to second rank and crowned as Spot's successor. Shrouding himself with suave urbanity, he closed the distance between himself and the leader at once. 

            Spot's gaze remained affixed on the rest of the newsies gathered before him. He lived for the attention they now gave, reveled in the respect with which they endowed him. It was the everlasting source from which he drew strength to live another day and fight another damned battle against the system. Wherein he could swim in a bitter cesspool of pride and control. 

            "Why didn't ya stop Travis from joinin' the factory scabs, huh?" When he didn't receive and answer right away, he turned to face the boy.  Spot could tell he was becoming uneasy. "Well?"

            Runner stammered for an answer, his earlier elation instantly shattered. "Well, he…"

            Well 'e what!" Spot snapped. "Ya tellin' me ya sorry ass couldn't keep 'im from joinin'? Cause if I'da been here, teamin' up with them woulda been the last thing on 'is mind!" 

            Runner took one step back hesitantly but it only provoked Spot to draw even closer. The Brooklyn leader placed his hands just below the boy's shoulders and shoved him back harshly, extending his arms to their full length in the doing. 

            "So what's ya excuse?" Spot nearly yelled. 

            "I, uh…I…" He jumped out of the way just in time to miss Spot shove him again. "Spot, what'sa matter with ya!" He hadn't the slightest clue as to why his cousin was being so hard on him, and this new wicked twist in personality greatly alarmed him. Quickening his steps, he backed away and almost tripped. 

            Spot stood still then, as if his feet were rooted into the hardwood floor. He raised a hand and beckoned the boy forth with a gesture. "Come 'ere," he said again.

            Runner knew that Brooklyn newsies were reared to accept their fates like men, but he also knew that in many like instances, he was occasionally dealt leniency. The look on Spot's face, however, told him amnesty would not live this day, and so the boy swallowed his fear and cowardice, and took the necessary steps until he was just inches from the leader.

            "When I give ya a job," Spot began, "I expect ya to follow it. That goes for every damn newsie in this lodgin' house, 'specially one in a position like youse." 

            "I aint Travis' keeper. It wasn't me job to…" 

            His words were cut short when, with an astounding celerity, Spot brought up his fingers in one swift motion and backhanded the boy's face, sending Runner crashing backwards onto the floor, crimson bands gracing his cheek.  

            "Don't ya dare talk back to me," Spot yelled in a heart-stopping thunder that made even the eldest gathered squirm in their chairs, and turning to the others he added, "the same holds for all youse as well, ya hear me? If ya even _think_ of defyin' me orders, I'll break every last bone in ya damn body. Does anyone have a problem with that?" 

            No one did. He nodded. "Good. Now clear out." They didn't need a second invitation. A stampede of feet thudded within the room as the Brooky's either disappeared upstairs to the bunkrooms or exited out onto the docks for a breath of fresh air. In less than a minute, the main room was empty save for Runner and Spot. 

            The younger boy propped himself up on his elbows where he lay and massaged his jaw, wincing at the pain. "Jesus, Spot! What the hell is ya problem! Ya tryin' to kill me?"

            Spot let a light smirk adorn his lips and held out a hand to help the boy to his feet. "I can't keep lettin' ya get away with things just cause ya me cousin. I had to put someone in their place 'fore the others thought I was weakenin'."

            "Yea, well it seems like ya always take it out on me," he grumbled, taking the elder's hand as he arose. "How the hell d'ya expect me to keep one of ya newsies from bein' a traitor? Whaddya want me to do? Get on me knees and beg 'im to stay?"

            "If ya gunna be Brooklyn's next leadah, ya gotta learn discipline. If ya can't handle it, though, I'se would suggest ya renounce ya position."

            Runner dusted off his clothes with a roll of his eyes. "Yea, yea. Like any of the bums here has any potential to even watch out for a group of five-year olds!"

            "Which is why I'se aint lookin' forward to kickin' ya ass every other day." Spot draped an arm over his cousin's shoulders as the younger glared up at him. In truth, as much as the Brooklyn leader loved to put his newsies in their rightful places, he didn't care too much for taking his anger out on them. He was too afraid that, driven by a murderous frenzy, he would come to see those he challenged as inferior vermin, and would in turn beat every last ounce of life out their mangled flesh until their life was his own, and the wretched victory appointed under his namesake. Afraid he would one day go too far, therefore, he avoided physically disciplining them as much as he could. Of course Runner, though, provided the perfect means by which to demonstrate his authority without losing a friend. "C'mon, I didn't hit ya that bad, did I?"

            Runner shoved the other away, a feint hint of a smile on his face, though marred by the bruise he now bore…a sort of battle wound, he'd go on to say, from his recent conflict with the notorious Spot Conlon. Though Runner many times wished to question this notoriety, for his older cousin was never in the same league as murderers and state-penitentiary criminals as far as deeds went. In the end, he'd attributed the titles to Spot's volatile temper, and of course his less than chivalric ways with the women. 

            "Get away from me, ya scab. Or d'ya intend on breakin' me neck now?" 

            Spot laughed. It was amazing how swiftly his moods could change, almost as much as it was terrifying. Just minutes earlier, he'd happened unto the lodging house in a maelstrom, his tall proud frame rigid like that of an arrogant schoolmaster, violence radiating from his aura like the stench of body heat. Yet now…now he was the playful cousin caught between adolescence and adulthood, an ever wandering seventeen-year old too early thrust into the hardships of life. "C'mon, Runnah. I gotta go see about a goil in Manhattan." 

            "Forget it! I'se aint meetin' no goil lookin' like this, with some big ass shinah 'cross half me face!"

            "Just tell the dame ya was in a brawl, defendin' the honor of ya sistah."

            "The sistah I don't have," Runner laughed. Nonetheless, he agreed to accompany Spot on the rendezvous, and the two Conlon's made their way for their ally borough as if none of the preceding events had ever occurred. 

~*~*~*~*~

_Please Review!_


	2. Falling Fruits and Crazed Collisions

DISCLAIMER: The characters from the movie _Newsies_ belong to Disney. Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Cody, Runner Conlon, Becker Princeton, Maverick O'Malley, and Aunt Bethany belong to me. All other characters are owned by their respective owners. Hehe. 

A.N.: Wow! I received quite a number of reviews and profiles. Thank you so much to everyone who's sent in schtuff! ^_^ I was actually planning out this story to be small in duration (as compared to my more lengthier stories) but I recently came up with this new storyline and it'd take more than ten chapters upon which I could elaborate. And I suppose that's a good thing, because I'm not really into introducing a wagon full of characters within single chapters…so with more chapters, I could have deeper characterization…all right, enough of that, lol. You're probably anxious to read chapter two. Shout-outs to: **Sita-beans, Cyanne, CiCi, Fantasy, Dreamer, Sniper, Lavender, Jazz, Touchdown, Strawberri, geometrygal, ershey, sniper, Miracle, Cerri, Nina, Matchin' Laces, and Kane! **Sorry I couldn't use everyone for the story, but I thank you kindly for showing interest! There's always the next CC, hehe. And now without further ado…

**~*_Where the River Flows Bright_*~**

            Quite a miraculous day it had been within the walls of the Brooklyn lodging house, for such was the silence that even the minutest of ear-pricking sounds could be heard. The smooth roll of a marble across the hardwood floors as the half-pints quietly rivaled one another with their aim and precision, the flipping of cards as the older youth were dealt cards for another hand of poker, and the whispered words of Ash Russnak as he made every attempt to blandish Miracle's ears with honey-coated promises to take her on a date as never she had experienced. She, of course, rejected him with a carefully repressed agitation, as always she did, and tapped her foot impatiently upon the ground as she waited for the time at which the Brooky's would all head out to the distribution office for the afternoon edition. For the moment, though, she would have to put up with Ash's arrogance, as the time to peddle papers had yet to come, and the others willingly took advantage of opportunity to retreat into their thoughts and simply relax. 

            At last, the reign of silence was at once shattered when a much exasperated shriek pierced the air, followed by a yell all instantly knew to have escaped the lips of their very own leader, Spot Conlon. Soon followed a sharp slapping sound, further altercation, and the rusty hinges supporting a door thrust open in haste. 

            "You bastard!" a high-pitched female voice accused as she descended the staircase a step at a time, bare feet slamming down onto the wood with rage as the girl held her stilettos in her hands and half her upper clothing draped over her arms. Her hair was a tousled mess, and her lips-smeared with faded rouge-currently tightened into a straight line. "Spot Conlon, I hope you rot in hell, you damn…" She finished her statement with another scream, and rushed the rest of the way into the main room. Once on flat ground, she placed her shoes back on, and quickly donned upon herself the sweater which she'd been carrying.   

            Spot followed after her. It was quite clear what his playmate of the day had been seduced into doing, for the Brooklyn leader's face was marred with the red prints of full lips, his hair tangled and blue eyes glowering at their prey. His shirt was fully unbuttoned, and both his suspenders hung loosely at his sides, but even then this demigod the Brooky's so adamantly worshipped looked the full part of a brat prince. "And I hope to see ya there, sweet face," he threw back at her, standing halfway down the staircase. 

            "Oh believe me, I'll turn a saint this very night if it means I'll be as far away as possible from the likes of you!" Her face was an amazing shade of red, her body nearly shaking as she spoke each word. 

            He only licked his lips and smirked in return. "That's not what ya were sayin' last night," was his reply. "S'matter of fact, youse was wishin' ya could get even _closer_. Sorry, doll, I can only go so deep…" He winked at her, then, hoping she'd catch the perversion of his innuendo. She had, for no sooner had he uttered the foul words, her tear-filled eyes widened with shock, and she stormed out the lodging house, not even waiting until she was out of ear-shot before she began to weep from embarrassment. 

            The others stared at their leader in a state bordering indifference and shock. They were use to his dealings with the female population, and even more so with the usual outcome of such rendezvous, that of verbal lashings and heartbreaks. Spot ignored their looks easily, and sat down to play cards with a nonchalant elegance at once appalling, and admirable. The day continued on as if nothing at all had happened. 

            That night told a different story, however. Upon the Brooklyn Bridge, Spot stood gazing down at the obsidian sheet of the sea, allured by its dark beauty, fascinated by the trappings of an untimely demise resting within the body of water. His arms were crossed and resting upon the bridge's railing, as if he were a child leaning against the banisters before a zoo exhibit utterly motionless because that which stood in his line of sight rattled his mind with astounding riddles. He smiled in spite of himself and inwardly shivered at the frigid bite of the late winter winds. 

            _One jump, and I could end it all_, he thought to himself, his eyes now a darkened shade to match the desolation of the sea below. Life grew tiring day by day. Managing over four dozen newsies was never a task for the faint-hearted, and with the rising threat of offenses from the factory workers, responsibility heightened for any leader. But Spot was exhausted! He wanted to wake up and just for one damned morning be the young man he could've become had his idiotic aspirations for a freeborn life not overridden mere rationality! He could've been someone on the verge of their college studies…he could've matured into a successful individual with much prosperity and…and _purpose!_ But no, all was lost now. 

            He sighed and passed a hand through his silken locks of sand-colored hair. All was lost indeed. With what background could he possibly attend graduate school? With what education had he to impress a prospective employer? In a bout of frustration, he raised a fist and pounded it onto the railing, not even registering the pain surging through his hand. "Damnit Conlon! Ya gunna end up just like 'im…a worthless drunk…some stupid, penniless street rat who'll go to the grave with two cents in 'is pocket." 

            The sound of light footsteps alerted his attention and he instantly terminated his ranting to turn and face whoever dared disturb him. His nerves were at ease when his eyes rested upon a familiar face. "Runnah," he said with a half-smile, "what are ya doin' here?"

            Runner wasn't wearing his usual grin. Quite frankly, his features were plastered into a status of worry and apprehension; it showed in the pallid color of his face, which wasn't entirely due to the drastic drop in weather. No, he'd been fretting for quite a time now, and the color only returned to his cheeks when he saw Spot to be safe and well. "Spot, I was lookin' for ya and found _this_ in ya room…"   

            The elder watched as, from the back pocket of his pants, Runner took out an envelope and handed it over. Spot closed his eyes for the briefest moment and sighed. Upon the envelope in small, neat print it read: _To the Love I'll Never Find_. It'd been rather melodramatic, he'd admit, and its composition had taken place during one of his frantic mentalities in which the world had no sense, nor did the call to live. It was a love letter of sorts, with cynical notions intermingled in a foul mixture, but had been addressed to no one in particular. Perhaps he'd prayed with flimsy desires that it'd somehow fall into the hands of one who cared by some unearthly strain of divine intervention, but of course there had also been his want to destroy it upon returning from the bridge…now that he'd made up his mind to return at all. 

            He simply looked at the letter for a moment, and then shrugged when Runner gave him a questioning look. What was there to say? Sometimes the pressure of his circumstances was simply too much to bear. Was it wrong for him to breathe life into his misery through words? Was it wrong for him to express himself in the form of a disparaging yet love-seeking letter? He turned from his cousin to look back out at the horizon, and knowing Runner was about to pose the inquiry verbally, finally sighed yet again and simply said, "I wasn't aimin' on doin' nothin'. I got too many people to watch out for to do somethin' so selfish…plus, I know ya wouldn't last a day if I was gone." 

            His lips widened into a grin and he turned back around to Runner, laughing wholeheartedly as the younger only rolled his eyes. "Ya know half of it is half-true, Runnah. Don't gimme that look." Spot draped an arm over his shoulders and began leading them back to Brooklyn. "So tell me, kid. Were ya really that worried? Were ya?"

            "Seriously speakin', Spot, the next time ya even _think_ of doin' somethin' like this, I'm gunna have to beat the idea out ya head! D'ya realize what a wreck I'd be? The Brooky's would all admit me into some…mental institution!" Placing the envelope back into his pocket, he frowned at the elder, being entirely altruistic in his concern. Spot was his life-source; he admired the leader fiercely and was devoted to him more as a brother would be, for when his family had turned its back on him, it was Spot in whom Runner found a bond and a place to belong.

            Spot saw the look and almost felt horrible. Unfortunately, he saw the bitter truth in Runner's words; he knew his cousin was deeply attached to him, and that a blow to one Conlon was a blow to both of them. A conversational hiatus passed between them and endured for the duration of their walk back to the lodging house, but just as they were to enter what had become their respectful abode, Spot looked to Runner seriously and said, "ya won't have to worry 'bout me leavin' youse for a _long_ time, Runnah." And he meant every word. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

            Close to three weeks later, Dewey Rembrandt strolled down the walks of downtown Brooklyn in search of a confounded newspaper. Apparently, now that her aunt had someone who could read to her the current events of the world, it was of the utmost necessity to obtain a morning edition for such entertainment. In any other circumstance, Dewey wouldn't have very much minded, but the elderly woman was getting quite annoying, what with her incessant chatter and wretched overpopulation of felines. Sure, having lived on a farm in New Jersey had called for quite a variety of pets both of the livestock and domesticated species, but Dewey had never been reared to share a single abode with well over a dozen cats, and the constant discovery of fur balls, excrement trails, and needless mewing was getting quite on her last nerve. 

            On top of that, she yet missed her parents terribly. Every little thing would only serve to remind her of them and the legacy they left behind; especially Sundays, when the gong of church bells lifted their song into the air and the huddled throngs of people decked out in their finest attire hurried into the local cathedrals for mass. Her parents had been missionaries, evangelists who devoted their lives to spreading the gospels…but this last mission trip had taken such selfless lives when the train upon which they rode in route back to New Jersey derailed from its tracks and thrust fatality upon its passengers. How Dewey had wept when she'd learned of the tragedy! How morose her days had been thereafter. She and Patron had spent weeks in utter silence, lest the dialogue was between themselves, and the tears never ceased to fall. In fact, they still fell even now…months after the deaths.

            Dewey sighed at the haunting memory and continued her tread through Brooklyn. Perhaps when her brother saved up enough money, they could move to the south away from the recollections and people, and start life anew; she could even attend a new women's college that had been built in Florida. And perhaps all was no more than wishful thinking. But in any case, such thoughts dissipated instantly when she finally caught sight of a newsboy.

            She opened her palm to examine the glistening silver nickel her aunt had given her and wondered how those who hawked the headlines could possibly ascertain a worthy salary by the day's end. Patron had acquired employment at a well-known oil refining factory and had promised her he'd soon have enough to pay for the lifestyle their parents would have wanted for them. "But what if this was the lifestyle we were meant to have?" she asked of no one in particular. 

            In less than a minute, she had closed the distance between herself and the newsboy. He was shorter than her, and most certainly three years her junior, for his face hadn't yet developed into that of a man's and his fidgety nature seemed to add all the more to his child-like attributes. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, and under a pair of full dark lashes flashed blue eyes brighter than a summer sky. Currently, his gaze was set upon a cart full of freshly picked apples, his expression one of blatant appetite. 

            "Excuse me, could I please buy a paper from you?"

            Dewey's query had obviously stunned him, for he turned to her with a start and for a moment couldn't quite formulate the words to speak. Fortunately, he gathered his bearings soon enough. Taking one of the morning editions from the stack he held under his arm, he then proceeded to hand it to the girl after receiving her nickel.

            "Keep the change," she said with a kind smile, before walking off back to her apartment. She'd figured he needed the money more than she did, and it didn't bother her in the least to indulge someone less fortunate this time around. After all, it's what her parents did all their lives. 

            The newsboy was so taken aback by the act of charity that he hadn't even been able to utter a "thank you". And when his senses finally did befall him, Dewey was already yards away. He shrugged with a sigh and stared down at the shiny coin with relish. His eyes immediately diverted back to the cart filled with apples, but he knew this nickel would have to go toward paying off a debt imposed upon him by a fellow Brooky. If he wanted to eat, he'd have to go about it the sly way. 

            When the vendor of the produce was caught up in a heated altercation with a seemingly displeased customer, the newsboy shuffled on toward the cart hungrily, climbing onto the spokes of its wheels and leaning forth to draw for himself the red fruit that so allured him. But a miscalculation in the proportionate spreading of his weight ended up flipping the cart onto its side with him atop it; dozens and dozens of apples lollygagged across the walks and streets, a horse carriage coming to a sudden halt and nearby pedestrians either laughing at the mishap or grumbling of how it'd delay them. The vendor was in an uproar, and flailing his arms about in the air manically, he yelled the most obscene curses…though no profanity could rival that which he spat upon seeing the one to whom all blame was due.

            After a number of curses, he pointed at the newsboy and yelled of how he'd get the authorities to throw the boy in the Refuge if he could help it. The newsboy in turn snatched an apple from the ground, jumped to his feet, and dashed away, abandoning his papers on the street curb. Dewey was among those spectating the commotion, though she couldn't see the details as those in front of her were much too tall to see over. She did, however, notice the crowd steadily parting as the boy from whom she'd bought a paper tore through the space provided as if his very life depended on it. 

            When the newsboy saw the familiar girl, he shoved the apple into her own hands and then took off again, thinking he'd be freed from the charges of theft so long as he'd given up the stolen object. Dewey watched him go in utter bewilderment, looked down at the apple, and then straight ahead through the parted crowds where the fuming vendor stood alongside a policeman having just then arrived at the scene. "That one!" yelled the vendor, pointing now at Dewey. "She's wrongfully taken advantage of this mess!"

            Realizing the trouble she'd been forced into, the girl instantly dropped the apple and took to a frenzied run, within minutes catching up with the newsboy a few blocks away from the scene. "Do you have no remorse for what you did to me?" she asked, as they darted in and out of crowds in attempts to lose the officer yet pursuing them. 

            "What's remorse?" he asked in return, his voice rounded with a youthful tone. He offered no more than a glance her way, somewhat embarrassed at having made an accomplice of an innocent bystander. 

            "Never mind." They ran for five minutes more, and even when she was about to voice her opinions concerning their having distanced themselves reasonably from the policeman, the newsboy only found the need to quicken his gait and bid her do the same. She couldn't understand his reasoning, but did as was told, for she concluded he knew more of street-living than she'd gather in a lifetime. They were in the process of rounding a sharp corner when suddenly they crashed head on with others. 

            Dewey stumbled back and landed roughly on her hip, her forehead swelling with the pain she'd received from the hard impact of the collision. Half an eternity seemed to pass as she sat upon the sidewalk massaging her temple, and glaring at the stains and torn threads her dress had received. She at last looked up to see about the newsboy, only to notice the pages of several morning editions scattered across the walks, and four additional peddlers aside from the one she'd just met. 

            The newcomers consisted of a boy and three girls, all dressed in the same bland attire of their thief companion. The boy was taller than Dewey by an inch or so, the ends of his golden locks just visible under the derby hat he wore. Emerald eyes danced with mischief, though, when this boy came to the realization that he was sprawled out upon his back, his female friend fallen upon him. "Mayfly," said he with a smirk, "as much as I love bein' in this position, I don't think we should be puttin' on shows in public." He winked at her. 

            The one called Mayfly downright laughed at this as she combed long, wavy black hair behind her ears and re-arranged her glasses perfectly atop the bridge of her nose. After flashing the boy a wide grin, she grabbed his face in her hands and leaned down to grace his lips with a quick kiss before rising to her feet. "Ya such a joke, ya know that, Runnah?" 

            Runner remained lying on the ground, hands folded behind his head as if basking in her affection. "But ya love me anyway."

            "I know. What could I possibly be thinkin'!" She brought her hands up to cover the giggles escaping her as his pride was now reduced to a scowl. Throwing her arms around his neck one he'd arisen, she, in over-enthusiastic tones, went on to assure him her words were all in jest. 

            There were two others standing by; a petite girl watching Dewey coyly with hands clasped behind her back, and another with her hair tied back in a long braid-though wisps of her fine tresses had escaped the tieback and now flew gently in the wind, framing her face-and a knitted shawl thrown over her plain dress. Dewey wondered whether this shawl was worn as an accessory, or more so as a means by which to modestly cover the upper regions of her full figure. She opened her mouth to excuse herself for the foolhardy accident once she too stood to her feet but the blonde boy interrupted her. 

            "Cody!" he cried out to the newsboy who'd stolen the apple. "Look what youse and ya girlfriend did to all me papes!" 

            Cody rolled his eyes as he started retrieving the pages from each morning edition. "She's not my girlfriend, Runnah." 

            "Oh?" Runner suavely walked up to Dewey and, taking her hand in his, placed a gentle kiss onto her knuckles. "Runnah Conlon at ya service, sweet face." Mayfly cleared her throat in warning, but the young Conlon was oblivious to it. 

            Fortunately, Dewey wasn't easily won over by such kind words. In fact, she didn't take too easily with a complete stranger touching his lips to her hand, and she most certainly didn't approve of the charm he so eagerly flaunted. She'd had her dealings with smooth-talkers in the past; if she couldn't fend them off with her spirited attitude, she knew Patron could with his fists. Not equipped with clever retorts presently, though, she only stared back at him expressionless. 

            The girl wearing the shawl had by then begun to help Cody in picking up the fallen papers, meanwhile lecturing him in a motherly fashion over how he needed to be careful more often, and stop causing riots here and there. She had a maternal instinct he'd been on the run from something just minutes earlier. "I don't want Spot to have to break ya outta the Refuge, ya know." Her thin, chapped lips were smiling warmly as she handed him the last of the papers. 

            "Ah, Cyanne," said Cody, "ya worry too much 'bout everyone. Ya'd make a good mother some day." 

            The others laughed at this, and even Dewey found herself smiling. There was something about Cody and his four companions that conveyed a sense of warmth and unity. The smallest in the quintet, though, still hadn't spoken a single word. Dewey had heard Mayfly call her "Mouse" and assumed her big brown eyes and their observant nature had won her the title, after of course her being as quiet as one. When Cyanne and Cody had finished collecting the papers, they joined this would-be mute girl and discussed amongst themselves where they should dine later for lunch. 

            Runner remained before Dewey with a friendly smile. He was yet holding her hand until Mayfly came up from behind him and, grabbing the belt loops of his pants, had pulled him away from the not so innocent interaction. She then offered Dewey her own cheerful smile; her protectiveness brought a laugh out of the girl. 

            "Don't worry," Dewey assured her. "I doubt my brother would allow me to date anyhow."

            Mayfly's dark eyes sparkled in merriment. "So are ya new 'round here?" she asked, going on a tangent from the original topic. "I haven't seen ya in these parts before." 

            "Oh, my brother and I moved here from New Jersey close to a month ago." 

            "Ah, wantin' to experience the city life, huh?" 

            "Actually…we came here against our will. Our parents unfortunately passed away, and we've come here to live with our aunt…"

            Mayfly's features darkened as she heard the news, and aside her, Runner seemed sympathetic as well. They both knew what it was like to lose parents, whether by death or abandonment, and the reminder that such yet happened in life re-opened wounds that time had still to heal. Mayfly pitied the girl deeply, and wanted to somehow reach out to her. "Heya, me and my friends were headin' off to grab a bite to eat in Manhattan. D'ya think ya'd like to come? We could show ya 'round the city, introduce ya to some friends. What's ya name, by the way?" 

            "Well, Dewey has been a family nickname for a while now," she said with a reminiscent and brooding smile. "But I think I'll have to pass up on your offer. My aunt is expecting me back home…" she held up the paper she'd earlier purchased from Cody "…to read, or rather, _listen_ to today's news. But it was nice meeting you all. Maybe we could get together another time?" 

            Runner nodded. "Most definitely, Dewey. We'll be sure to look 'round for ya one of these days." He beckoned to the others, and with a final word of farewell, the five newsies headed off to their destination, Runner and Mayfly bringing up the caboose of the fellowship hand in hand as they playfully argued with one another. 

            Dewey lagged behind, watching after them longingly, wishing she could be a part of their camaraderie but knowing for the moment she had to tend to her aunt. Laughing to herself, she started for the direction she knew would lead her back to a main street, but no sooner had she taken five steps, she noticed Cyanne and Cody had overlooked the page of a morning edition lying limply across the curb of the walks two or three yards away. She went to pick it up, and afterward noticed an envelope cast aside which the paper had been covering. 

            The small rectangular sachet was dampened at the corners, but she was able to make out the neat print on its face which read in fading ink: _To the Love I'll Never Find_. She studied it for a moment, and figuring it might turn out to be a good read, tucked it into the pocket of her light sweater. Then, it was off to Aunt Bethany she went…Aunt Bethany, and those crazed felines of course. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Please Review! Next Chapter: The Factory Workers & The Letter's Contents!


	3. The Boys at Cole's

DISCLAIMER: The characters from the movie _Newsies_ belong to Disney. Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Cody, Runner Conlon, Becker Princeton, Maverick O'Malley, and Aunt Bethany belong to me. All other characters are owned by their respective owners. Hehe.

_A.N: Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing! It makes me quite happy to read your comments and such. ^_^ _

_SHOUT-OUTS:_

**Dreamer: **Thanks for your review! ^_^ I'm glad you like how Spot and Runner are portrayed, hehe. They're my favorite characters to portray. In any case, your beloved Sunny makes a cameo this chapter. Hope you like it. 

**Melika: **Heya, thanks for the compliments on characterization. I try to work extremely hard on that because I _love_ characterizing when writing a story…it's like my second favorite thing to do after working out the storyline. ^_^ The Manhattan newsies will be making an appearance soon enough, and in the latter part of the story as well. Thanks so much for your review!

**The Good Girl: **Glad you're liking the story so far! Here's another chapter coming right at you! Hope you like it!

**Strawberri Shake: **Yes, Runner _is_ adorable, but don't fuel his pride, hehe. *huggles Runner* So you want a crazy feline, huh? You're more than welcome to take one of the countless Aunt Bethany has, lol. I use to have a black kitten named Salem…man oh man, that cat was _insane!_ In any case, thanks for reviewing!

**Fantasy: **She found the letter! Dun dun dun! Muahaha. This letter business originally wasn't going to be in the story but a new plotline befell me quite suddenly the other day and I was like…_Eureka__!_ Well…not really. Anyhow, thanks on the compliments for my characterization! ^_^ I always work hard in bringing out the characters to their true nature. Enjoy this chapter!

**Sita: **Sita, darling! *ish glomped* Yes, Spot's letter is something I'd probably write during my angsty boy-lacking emotional fits, lol. Just to let you know, I noticed you updated "Angelsight" and I've every intention on reading it when I can. I usually don't read slash, but I'll make an exception because I love you so. ^_^ *huggles* Have a good read!

**Emotions: **Heya, sorry I wasn't able to add you to the cast. Actually, I received your profile after I had closed the casting call. But I'm glad you'll still be reading. I'll be sure to keep your character in mind for the sequel, hehe. Thanks much!

**Cyanne: **Love and duct-taped men? *purrs* What an interesting sign-off…*looks toward Spot* _"Hey, don't get any ideas!"_ Muahaha. Glad you're enjoying the story. And yup, in this chapter we get to read about Spot's deep dark secrets, as you so affectionately dubbed them, lol. Thanks for the reviews!

**Apollonia: **Aww, you called my story a little gem! *sniffle* I'm touched. Truly. And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the storyline with you and Spot. ^_^ Glad you found the time to read my story, though. W00t w00t! Enjoy this chapter! 

**Miracle: **Thanks for reviewing! W00t w00t! You and Ash will be making more appearances, lol, don't worry. Onward to the next chapter!

**Ershey: **Heya! Glad you liked the last chapter so much. I'll probably be updating this story more often than I usually update stories, lol. Most because it's a romance I think. I'm in a romantic mood nowadays. *grins* The note that Dewey found was written by Spot. Remember when Spot and Runner were on the bridge and the younger showed Spot the letter as if to ask "why the heck were you writing a suicide note?" lol. But anyway, yea. Spot _is_ hot…especially when he's being such a jackass, lol. 

**Striker: **Haha, glad you like the bad-boy aspect of Spot Conlon, lol. I agree with you, it _does_ make him a hundredfold more hotter. *licks lips* ^_^ Here's another chapter for you! Thanks for the review!

**geometrygal: **Aww, thanks for the compliments! I'm glad I was able to brighten your day with an update, lol. Here's another one to make you happy too! 

**CiCi: **Hey hey hey! You were my first reviewer for this chapter! *dances* You win…a chocolate covered Runner Conlon! Muahaha! You already have him in your story, though, lol. Oh well, you can never have too many Runner's. Thanks so much for the reviews! Hope you enjoy this new update! 

**_~*Where the River Flows Bright*~_**

****

            The factory workers at Cole's Oil Refining never received a break for lunch or repose during the ten or more hours in which they were required to toil unceasingly with heavy equipment and the stink of grease, but the day a high-standing official within the New York hierarchy arrived in horse-drawn coach to check up on the business in which he'd years ago invested, the burly and excessively hairy man who oversaw employment let the boys off for a lovely pardon in some radical strain of humanity…and to avoid accusations of sadistic labels should his indifference toward child labor be discovered. 

            Patron watched on from across the street as the upper class gentleman in the coach, his luxurious suit accented with top hat and cane, stepped down from his mode of transportation and neared the factory with scrutinizing eyes. Apparently, the facade of the edifice had very much decayed since last he saw it, and this decadence did nothing to lighten his already straitlaced demeanor. Behind the man strode in the most gallant of steps a youth dressed in the same manner, chestnut locks of hair falling past his cheekbones as he, too, examined the building and found it to be most displeasing. The two entered the factory within seconds, and Patron found himself staring after the entrance through which they had gone, wondering what their business might be. 

            "That was the owner a' the factory," a voice said behind him. "Mr. Princeton owns more oil companies in New York than anyone, which a' course explains 'is wealth. The son there, Becker Princeton, is next in line to inherit the money."

            Patron turned around and found himself to be looking at Noah Baker, more commonly known among his peers as Linx. He was terribly quiet most the time, which indeed was a rare trait among the young men of the factory, but obviously he'd deemed it imperative to inform the newcomer to his trade of the chain of command running rampant in the state. He was nearly half a foot taller than Patron, and quite lanky despite the heavy labor he daily performed. Stroking his stubble-covered chin, which was a result of his neglecting morning shaves now and then, his grey-blue eyes became distant and thought upon something of which he wouldn't speak as the boy retreated back into his customary silence. 

            "I bet Becker doesn't have to lift a single finger to garner his money," Patron said, his voice half-bitter even though he knew he wasn't one to be judging. Taking a small towel from the pocket of his trousers, he dabbed at the perspiration dampening his cheeks while standing in the aim of the glaring sun, eyes squinted against the brightness and curls plastered against his forehead. He didn't mind too much the amount of work he received, for he was quite use to performing numerous tasks back on his father's farm, but the duration of such bothersome chores is what truly exhausted him. And it didn't alleviate his pains knowing he and Dewey wouldn't inherit their parents' savings until their eighteenth birthday, which was nearly half a year away!

            "Ah, it reminds us of our roles in life." The voice that spoke now was rich and melodic, the r's rolled with the smoothness of an ice structure's surface and the vowels over-pronounced with an appreciation for the English language. Maverick O'Malley. He very much reminded Patron of an older rendition of 'the artful dodger' from Dickens' _Oliver Twist_. Thin shoulder-length hair of a fiery persuasion and pale green eyes that never seemed to smile despite what Irish legends dictated, Maverick was in his early twenties and seemed to take almost everything too seriously. In the system of seniority within the factory, he acquired a top-ten ranking, and perhaps it was this source of pride from which he drew himself up to be a respected individual among his peers. __

            Currently, he was surrounded by his usual cloud of smoke, the cigarette dangling from his lips idly while he studied Patron carefully. The boy had come to Cole's over two weeks ago in search of employment, and though the factory habitually didn't accept those under the age of eighteen, Maverick had successfully convinced the boss to look over the matter just this one time. He wasn't sure why he'd cared so much about the kid's welfare no more than he was sure if in fact he _did _care. All he knew was his gamble was proving to be rather beneficial, for Patron had definitely turned out to be a dedicated worker. 

            "Ye shouldn't worry too much 'bout it, lad," Maverick said after a few moments, his rough brogue like a ballad in the wind. "Life's a game we all play, and if ye handle your cards right, I'm sure ya'll be just as successful as any man."

            "If ya handle ya cards right…and have fun with the ladies 'long the way, of course." 

            Maverick rolled his eyes at Ditch's addition to what was supposed to have been uncompromising advice and smacked the tall Spaniard upside the head. "Ye never stop thinking 'bout the ladies, do ya?" Ditch Zavala shook his head with a smirk, as was his usual response to such questions when he wasn't in the mood to make a twisted sly remark. He was shorter than Linx, but still maintained a towering height-when compared to the average eighteen year old at least-and across his left cheek he bore a scar, his reminder of a fight that had gotten much too out of hand one day. Fortunately, the everlasting cut worked to his benefit, for the ladies pitied him so upon seeing it, and most the time believed it added all the more to a rugged sex appeal for which they always craved. 

            Patron only shook his head at this while he leaned himself up against the brick exterior of an apartment building. Linx, Maverick, and Ditch harbored such contrasting personalities and yet they still found the ability to commune with one another in an unlikely friendship. It almost seemed as if they…as if they _needed_ each other more than anything else. He tossed this idea back and forth in his mind until an outburst from Ditch terminated his silent contemplations. 

            "Look, look!" exclaimed Ditch, with an extended finger that served more so to accuse than to point out. "What the hell is a damned diseased lil' newsies doin' in our territory, huh?" He slammed a fist into his open hand fiercely, his features completely changing into an expression that conveyed sheer abhorrence. "I swear I'll beat the filth to a damned pulp…"

            Maverick held him back, however, knowing full well what temper could be awakened should Ditch be allowed to pursue his violent aspirations. "Not today, lad, and 'specially not when it's an unfair fight." 

            "I don't care if it's unfair…" He went on to curse both in and out of Spanish, implementing the dirtiest words he knew to voice the anger he felt merely by looking upon the newsie. Patron looked thoroughly confused, and rightfully so, for he knew nothing of the bitter hostility between factory workers and their paper-peddling counterparts. He parted his lips to pose the expected query of Maverick, but Linx, seeing his knowledge was once again required to enlighten the naïve mindset of the newcomer, stepped in and thus began explaining the reasoning behind Ditch's resentment. 

            "First of all," said he to the younger, "the newsies has a reputation a' constantly lyin'; it's how they sell their papes, by deceivin' their customers. They's full a' tricks, they are! Nextly, they run 'round the streets always causin' riots here and there…like circus animals I tell ya. We don't too much 'ppreciate their immaturity. Lastly, they think they's so high above us. They assume we don't know how to read just cause we don't sell papes. Arrogant lil' guttersnipes, that's what the newsies is." 

            When at last finished with his explanation, Linx nodded in approval of what he'd just spoken and waited for the other's response. Patron was a skeptic, though, and upon confessing this to his co-workers, they were more than happy to suggest he conduct a brief tête-à-tête with the newsie to acquire his own judgment on the subject. He indeed undertook the task and strolled casually toward the boy selling afternoon editions, hands tucked into his pockets while he moistened his lips and thought upon what exactly he would say. 

            "Uh, hello," was all he could muster once he reached the one in question, and when the newsie turned around to face him, his doubts of the lurking evils within such peddlers was heightened, for the boy appeared to be the epitome of affability and kindness. Patron learned his name to be Sunny (he and Dewey long ago unanimously decided upon the absurdity of the nicknames those youth in the working class self-appointed themselves, and so _Sunny_ as an alias wasn't as surprising to him as it would've otherwise been) and entertained a rather kindly dialogue with the newsie in which they discussed insignificant topics such as local news and such. 

            "Are ya with those kindly fellows glarin' at me over there?" He nodded to Maverick and company with a sad smile, but Patron was for a moment too entranced by the newsie's half-Swedish accent to fully understand his meaning. When he didn't receive an answer, Sunny laughed and would've raised the question yet a second time, but suddenly he found himself grabbed by the collar of his crimson shirt and slammed against the concrete face of a wall. The trio he'd been referring to now stood before him with merciless glowers, Patron having been shoved aside by an impatient Ditch. 

            "Gimme one good reason," snapped the Spanish one, "why I shouldn't bust ya head open right now with my fist."

            This one good reason would never be received, for before any violence could be enacted, Mr. Princeton and son returned back to the streets, followed closely by the sycophant of a man the boys knew as their boss. Ditch quickly released Sunny, shoving the newsie away from him as if his very existence insulted his worth, and stalked back toward the factory, absolutely livid. He was soon followed by Maverick and Linx, Patron trailing behind as if torn between the extremes of benevolence and rudeness. Finally, he took after his friends without an apology, and spent the rest of the day wondering why he hadn't uttered one. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

            _The night is as I've never known it._

_            I sit here in the solitude of my room, far from the bustling lunacy and expectations, and I think to myself over the sheer idiocy of those who have yet to grasp the realities daily facing them in life. We aren't gods, that we should enslave Fate as if it were our puppet. He who told me I'd the power to control my future was a liar. Nothing more. It is rather _we_ who are the marionettes, and Fate the chiding puppet master who thrusts us into the most dire of circumstances. _

_            For far too long, however, have I made love with the madness surrounding me. My life is as inconsequential as the pebble sitting aside the mighty mountain's base. I contribute nothing to the overall scheme of life, and this realization has riddled me for months as of late. I try to shroud myself with the authoritative lust of an arrogant prince; I try to whip those who would obey me into a pathetic submission upon which I inhale the fumes of _my_ ecstasy and then fall back into yet another abyss of stupidity. _

_            Yet, dearest love whom I'll never enchant, I mean not to hurt you by this foolish game of the lower class. Every __midnight__ rendezvous appeases my short-lived urges for a companion to sustain my desires, but I still lack something in my life, and it was tonight that I finally realized what that something was. But how could I possibly entertain a relationship? It's all become second-nature to me, and I fear I've no longer the capacity to love anyone. _

_            Do you think it's best that I simply separate myself from you? I would only shatter your emotions, you see, and I rather it be my life than your heart. So I suppose this is the end. I always daydreamed as a child who that special someone would be, but my own foolhardiness and pride has soiled love into a long-dead entity, and now I sadly say my goodbye's to you. Keep me always._

_            ~__Brooklyn___

Dewey hung on to every last word like a Romantic grasping for the melodies of a violinist's classical composition, seduced by the letter's diction and so fallen in a sphere of love's spells that even when she had awoken, she was yet drugged by the beauty of the correspondence. Such a work of art! And mingled with a tragedy that was simultaneously grievous and yearning. After tending to Aunt Bethany, she'd read the letter five times over, mystified by its harsh truths, compelled to inscribe a response. 

            But who was this 'Brooklyn'? His use of literary techniques was to his advantage, for he sounded quite the part of the scholar, and this made Dewey's heart swell all the more. She'd found the letter after her clash with Runner Conlon and his companions…could they have had anything to do with it? Had the letter in fact been in Runner's possession? Had he lost it upon crashing to the ground? She considered the notion, but soon decided against it, for she couldn't quite place the jovial boy as the architect of such dark prose, not to underestimate his probable hidden talents of course. She was merely being truthful to herself. And what of the others? Cyanne, Mouse, Cody, and Mayfly…perhaps the letter had been their own? No, for some reason she simply couldn't see them as having written it!

            Then who? A businessman recently laid off from his job? An aspiring novelist rejected by a publishing company? A fiancée who refused to further his relations with the woman he loved for fear that he would only hurt her? All three ideas had merit, but a piece always seemed to be missing from the confounded puzzle and she wasn't quite sure how to reorganize her thoughts to better suit the mystery. An hour later, she decided the sign off had not been a personification of the borough, but rather the writer's very name! After all, as she'd seen during her stay so far in New York, the newsies and factory workers with whom she and her brother were acquainted picked rather peculiar names for their respective aliases. 

            That night, however, when she was eating dinner with Patron, he claimed to know no one at Cole's with the name of 'Brooklyn'. Dewey was discouraged, naturally, but understood the oil refining factory was only one of several within the state. And so instead of fretting, she lay awake in her bed later on until she knew her brother was fast asleep, and then crept into the parlour to write a reply as entrenched in love as was this passionate man's letter. Three drafts later, when she was satisfied with the final work, she sealed it into a fancily-decorated envelope from her stationery collection and hid the sachet under her pillow before taking to a much needed sleep.

            The next day, with letter in hand, she waited an hour after Patron's leave to work before hurrying into the streets of Brooklyn in search of Cody, who she assumed would be hawking his headlines in the same area as he had been yesterday, but then remembering the incident with the apples, she was left to conclude he'd found another area more suitable to his needs. As she dallied about to other street corners, a wave of fluttering butterflies spun around in her stomach. Would Brooklyn write back to her? Would he even care that she'd taken the time out to digest his letter? Would her response brighten him, or worsen his moods?

            Was he even still among the living? She couldn't deny the suicidal aspects in his letter, and had prayed several times throughout the night that he'd refrain from any attempts to take his own life. She hoped her note would be of some comfort to him, for more than anything, it was an encouragement to keep pressing on even through his most trying times. Momentarily, she began to consider the foolishness of her actions, and the folly it might turn out to be to bridge the gap between herself and a complete stranger. What would Patron say? She undoubtedly knew he wouldn't approve in the least. Then again, he wouldn't approve of her walking on her lonesome without an escort as she now was doing and yet she defied _that_. 

            "Cody!" She found the boy four blocks from the apple vendor's territory and smiled as she neared him. 

            Cody looked up from yelling out an embellished story about hordes of pigeons attacking any who entered Central Park (which had been his rendition of a story concerning a kindly elderly man who daily visited the park to feed bread crumbs to dozens of birds) and waved at the girl as she drew closer. He couldn't help but take delight in her visiting him. He'd decided yesterday afternoon that he rather liked Dewey. She had the prettiness of the country about her, nothing glamorous but not quite plain either. Her features were softened and almost doll-like, so that one instantly felt at ease when talking to the girl. Her curly hair fell in velvety ringlets just past her shoulders, and her deep brown eyes with the slightest hint of gold moved one to endow complete trust to her. 

            From afar, the brightness of her face showed how lively her spirits were at any given time, and at a closer look, the freckles across her cheeks and her soft pouty lips were automatic assurance that she'd do no harm even if tempted. "Cody, I was hoping you could tell me whether or not you knew a newsie in these parts named Brooklyn."

            The boy smirked at this. He knew it would come sooner or later; it was never long before any new girl to the city crossed paths with the infamous Spot Conlon. He casually swiped off his hat, wiped the sweat off his forehead with a shirt sleeve, and then fixed the cap back atop his hair. "Sure I know 'im. Why d'ya ask?" Who _didn't_ know Spot Conlon?

            She was elated by the information! Not a factory worker, but a newsie! This was good news indeed, for if she was already acquainted with Runner and the others, she was quite sure they'd have no problem introducing her to this fellow of theirs. "I was hoping, also, that you would be so kind as to give this to him for me." She held out the letter for him to receive.

            "Sure thing," he replied, taking the letter while his smirk became lazier. So Spot seduced yet another one, did he? And alas, of all people it had to be _Dewey_. A sweet girl who didn't know any better. The Brooklyn leader had probably shown her a night in the city she'd never forget, had confessed an early-born love for her, and then had said all the right words that would get her to sleep with him. And now she truly believed their little bedroom escapade would evolve into more. He inwardly frowned, knowing full well Spot would only scoff at the supposed love letter. 

            "Thank you, and please don't tell him who it's from."

            He arched an eyebrow at this. "Okay…" Maybe she thought he would be able to guess for himself, but Cody knew Spot never remembered the name of a girl…even if he'd slept with her just the night before! "Well, I'll see ya around then, huh?"

            "I suppose so. Thanks again, Cody." She bid him farewell and continued back to her apartment, her heart racing at palpitating speeds. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

_Please Review!_


	4. Who's Spot Conlon?

DISCLAIMER: The characters from the movie _Newsies_ belong to Disney. Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Cody, Runner Conlon, Becker Princeton, Maverick O'Malley, and Aunt Bethany belong to me. All other characters are owned by their respective owners. Hehe.

**_~*Where the River Flows Bright*~_**

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            _Dearest __Brooklyn__,_

_            Forgive me my meddling with affairs with which I've no business, but I couldn't help but feel moved by the words of your letter. You wrote with such passion and ardor that I almost came to believe I'd known you for years, and the connection between us nothing short of a bond between the best of friends. I know this must sound terribly ridiculous to you no doubt; especially seeing how the letter wasn't even addressed to me in the first place!_

_            I beg your pardon again for having read what was obviously meant to be a private correspondence and hope for your forgiveness. I was compelled, however, to write you back because I definitely can relate to your pains. I've recently lost both my parents, and not a day goes by that I don't think of the peace I might find in death…just to be reunited with them…_

_            But then I remember those who need me now, and that my time to leave this world isn't a date to be decided by my own foolishness. I know God is with us always, and that certainly is something well worth living for. So don't be discouraged, __Brooklyn__, when times get too rough, because you very well might mean the world to someone. If you ever need someone to speak with, I'm here always; I do hope to receive a return letter from you soon. Take care, and God bless._

_            ~Yours_

Spot Conlon skimmed over the letter with raised eyebrows, having not the slightest clue as to how anyone could've ascertained the details of the letter he'd written weeks ago. He looked down at Cody with full expectations that the act was hardly something of serious nature and more surely a wretched little prank contrived by Runner and his roguish minions. But when he interrogated the boy and pressed the queries concerning who the author of the preposterous note had been, Cody would only hold to the simplest of answers: "just some girl", for Cody was holding to his allegiance to keep Dewey's identity masked; he didn't even have the slightest intention of spilling the secret to the others. 

            Needless to say, Spot was dissatisfied with the lack of information and called for Runner to speak with him in his room. Yet the same confounded and clueless behaviour ensued. Runner knew nothing of the letter the Brooklyn leader had received. "Lemme read it," he offered, "and maybe I can figure out who the writer is." But Spot wouldn't grant him such rights; _no one_ would digest a single word off the mint-scented paper. He thought the oblivious nature of his boys was the worst problem and was about to dismiss the whole matter with a simple hand swipe, but when he'd asked Runner to give him back his original letter into which he'd poured his soul, the younger Conlon's face became quite pale. 

            He searched the entire bunkroom-including the pockets of all his pairs of breeches, under his mattress and pillow, and within the drawers of the nightstand beside his bed. He fulfilled the same duties for Spot's room as well, thinking perhaps he'd already returned his cousin's letter. But he had no such luck. Spot's written work, so laden with a personality he'd always hidden, was lost. 

            This, naturally, drove the leader to become exasperated, a state he'd entertain for two days straight. He should've taken the letter from Runner that night they had been talking on the bridge! Now his secrets were an open trinket box filled with gems long buried at which anyone might jeer. And who was this young woman who so wanted to help him? What right did she have to even involve herself in his life? She knew _nothing_ of his miseries…and he wasn't about to enlighten her. 

            "Stupid girl," he nearly yelled, crumbling her letter into a tight ball of crinkled rubbish until his knuckles had turned white by the sheer force. At least he hadn't used his newsie name…that was his only assurance. Let 'Brooklyn' be her only clue to his life. He threw the crumpled paper across the room with a curse, turning around to leave without even caring where the damned thing fell. Slamming the door shut, he descended the stairs of the lodging house and decided he wouldn't return until early next morning. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

            Not too long after Spot's fleeting maelstrom, Runner and his usual camaraderie of friends (minus Cody-who'd apparently found a girlfriend and thus presently indulged her with his time) had managed to steal Dewey's company upon crossing paths with the girl during a morning stroll, and now surrounded her with their banter and good fellowship while taking a brief repose from selling papers at the acclaimed _Bistro Alley_-known for its fresh pastries and delicious mixtures of coffee. 

            Dewey was delighted by the offer of yet another invitation from the friends, and though she felt a minor obligation to fulfilling a promise given Aunt Bethany in which she assured the old woman she'd join her on a dally through Central Park, such commitments were becoming less and less pertinent and a desire to befriend the newsies more and more appealing. They lavished her with such attention she many times came close to being fooled into believing she was someone of great importance to whom _all_ praise was owed; their appreciation of her presence was most blatant and immeasurable. It wasn't long before she came to attribute this to their natural cordiality and sociable personalities. They were prone to striking up a conversation with any who would oblige them!

            "So, Dewey-darling," said a bright spirited Mayfly, who obviously had a tendency to tag terms of endearment to others' names. She was no doubt an effervescent socialite and any who came into contact with the girl knew instantaneously her cheerfulness to be quite contagious. "How are ya likin' Brooklyn so far?" 

            Dewey's heart skipped a beat, for she had momentarily believed Mayfly to be speaking of _Brooklyn_-the author of the mysterious letter she'd found days ago! And under this flawed perception, she blushed profusely out of embarrassment and tried to fabricate a worthy reply. Was this all a scheme of their doing? She wondered. Or had Cody simply related the clandestine correspondence between Dewey and Brooklyn to his companions? She wished the would-be messenger boy was present, that she might validate the delivery and receipt of her letter. She wanted to know what Brooklyn's reaction had been, and whether he'd intentions of writing back. She grinned bashfully at the possibilities and quite forgot she wasn't alone until noticing Runner wave a hand before her face, a laughable attempt to wrench her from the gossamer confines of a dream world. The others were sent into a guffaw of mirth. 

            "Don't think we'll be offended if ya don't like the city," Mayfly assured her with an enchanted laugh. 

            "Oh!" Dewey felt even more embarrassed than before! _The city! _She joined their laughter hesitantly and wondered upon her ridiculous musings. Of course they had meant the city, what reasons had she to believe otherwise! She'd never mentioned Brooklyn, the newsie, to either of them and so how could they possibly be referring to _that_ circumstance, lest Cody's swear to secrecy had been nothing more than shallow words. She shook her head, thinking this to be false, and returned her gaze to Mayfly to answer the question, but the newsgirl apparently had shelved away her desire to know of a response for she was currently looking at Runner with a sly smirk as her fingers trailed down the front of the boy's shirt. Runner showed no indication of acknowledging his female companion's flirtations, other than a lopsided grin, and continued pampering Dewey with proper attention, if only for politeness' sake. 

            "To be sincere, I'd have to say I by far prefer the country." She fidgeted with much nervousness upon the booth where she sat between Cyanne and Mouse, praying she wouldn't affront her newfound friends with her partiality toward her home back in New Jersey. "Back on the farm, there wasn't smog polluting the air or concrete upon concrete to rival the greenery. It was peaceful…" She looked up finally and was relieved to see the girls on either side of her smile warmly. 

            As for Mayfly, Dewey noticed the social butterfly's hand had disappeared under the table, and that Runner impatiently tapped his fingertips upon a half-empty plate in what seemed to be an attempt at restraining himself. His grin had been replaced with a flustered countenance, cheeks turned red and eyes filled with a certain yearning. 

            "I wanted a horse when I was younger, but me pa didn't think it'd work out too good since we was only livin' in an apartment at the time." The first words Mouse had spoken all day! She was opening up now as she began to see no threat in their new companion, and wanting to befriend the girl to the best of her ability, she'd decided it time to simply be herself. She usually shied away from others, yet if Dewey was going to be included in their cliché from now on, there was no point in acting reserved. 

            "My father use to breed horses on our farm. We had Arabians, Pinto's, Quarter horses…" 

            Suddenly, Runner jumped from his seat with the utmost urgency, knocking down a glass of water that spewed its icy liquid across the table, blocks of ice slipping this way and that and the girls across the table backing away as to not have their clothing soaked. In an abnormally high-pitched voice, Runner let out a "We'll be right back!" while grabbing Mayfly's hand and dragging her out the restaurant in hurried and _anxious_ steps, his girlfriend grinning innocently as she was led away. 

            Cyanne shook her head at this with a light smile. "Those two are goin' to get in trouble one a' these days. How many times do I suggest they act in a modest way, Mouse? And 'ow many times do they listen?"

            "I don't know, _Mother_," came the playful reply. And the youngest would've gone on to say more but the mockery was interrupted upon the arrival of two from the headline-hawking class, a tanned brunette with bright honey eyes who gave off an ambitious air and a tall curly-haired boy donning the biggest of smiles. The couple neared their counterparts with purpose, obviously intending to partake of the fellowship briefly before relating a message and then taking their leave. 

            "Well, well," greeted Cyanne with a nod, "if it isn't Rouge Jazz and 'er slave." She and Mouse burst into giggles while Dewey waited for a sign of Jazz's not taking the joke seriously before joining the laughter as well. 

            But Jazz only crossed her arms and smiled back with a feigned wryness. "And if it isn't the wise Cyanne with her lil' ducklings to mother. Or should I say smother?" Pleased with the retort, she grabbed a nearby chair and with admirable grace, slid it to the table and fell upon its seat rather cat-like. Her movements were smooth, and having the body of a dancer made every last one seem effortless. "Itey," said she to her male comrade standing behind her, "would ya mind fetchin' us some soda pop?" When he excused himself, she turned back to her friends. 

            "So what's a Manhattan newsie doin' in these parts, huh?" 

            Jazz cracked a smile void of its earlier scorn, but also lacking in any strain of friendliness. Her manners toward the others was refined but almost business-like, as if she were an attorney plainly meeting with her clients. She showed nothing of harmony between them; if anything, her tough persona did more to separate herself from those with whom she spoke. But this wasn't rare. Though allies of the closest breed, Manhattan and Brooklyn had an ongoing rivalry in which the former borough acknowledged their complement's severity, but thought themselves ten times more sensible than all the Brooky's put together. Naturally, such assumptions didn't sit too well with those under Spot Conlon's reign, and thus a minor flaunt of hostility always played out when Manhattan and Brooklyn met, and it wouldn't be dismissed until a resolution was created. 

            "Me and Itey was just swingin' by to tell y'all 'bout the dance at Irvin' Hall this week. It's some kinda fundraisin' hoopla this time 'round…for the benefit of orphans if I aint mistaken. So Medda's invited the upper class, the middle class, and a' course the street rats of society." Only then did Jazz take note of an unfamiliar face at the table. Spitting into her hand and then extending it toward the obvious newcomer, she said, "I'd be Jazz. My boyfriend over there's name's Itey. And youse is…?"

            "Dewey," replied the one in question, hesitating for only a moment in taking the saliva-marred palm of the girl. She was conditioned to accepting country manners even more bizarre than the one now in practice, and feeling the upside of her enthusiasm this particular day, she mirrored Jazz's actions before they shook firmly on the matter.   

            The Manhattan brunette considered the name, her lips nearly frowning as she pondered deeply. "Cute," she at last decided, nodding her approval and then turning her golden eyes back to Cyanne and Mouse. "So don't forget chickadees, this weekend: Medda's place. Spread the word and make sure everyone from Brooky is comin'." She knocked on the table to add melody to the announcement as she rose to her feet and started for the exit where Itey awaited her, soda pop in hand. "Carryin' the banner," she added, half in duty and half in an effort to bridge the gap between herself and the girls from Spot's territory. 

            The bell above the door to _Bistro Alley_ tinkled a few notes, signaling the exit of the couple, and Dewey found her mind to be housing countless questions ranging from the whereabouts of Irving Hall to whether the invitation to the dance was extended to her as well. Cyanne laughed at her obvious curiosity. "Get ready for one hell of a weekend, Dewey."

~*~*~*~*~

            "A dance? Where?" 

            "At Irvin' Hall, lad. Me sources tell me we've every right to be there. Why shouldn't ye go, ay?"

            "Cause the damn newsies is goin', Maverick!" Ditch exclaimed, extremely disturbed that he'd been forced to simply mention their cursed name. How he _despised_ those flea-infested, rabid little pieces of excrement. He passed a hand through his shaggy locks of raven black hair and glared across the table at a somewhat tall girl going on about how the presence of the newsies should give them all the more reason to attend, for if a brawl unleashed between the enemies they'd be entertained with the thrill of a fight, and such conflicts were subject to be adored by her. 

            "Need I remind ye, Rebel," Maverick spoke up again, in between taking sips of mead from the decanter he tightly clutched, his Irish brogue lightly slurred from the consumption of alcohol, "that the last time ye were in fight with a newsie, it left quite the tok'n on your body." He motioned to an area between her wrist and elbow where several scars blemished her otherwise perfect skin. 

            Patron silently observed as the girl immediately quieted out of embarrassment and consciously crossed her arms to hide any signs of her weakness, for never had it been in her nature to stand before the boys like a prim doll to which they might point and make evident all her flaws. He pitied her dampened spirits and wished there were words he might use to assuage her humiliation, but he concluded that had such bewitched limericks been in his possession, Rebel would only abuse her sarcasm and ridicule him. During his ventures with the factory workers from both Cole's Oil Refining and the textile industry across the street, he had done very well in acknowledging the fierce temperament with which these youth cloaked themselves, and he'd never make it sport to provoke anyone's wrath. 

            Then again, there was Kaya Williams-or Ershey, as she liked to be called-in whom Patron still had hopes of befriending a convivial young woman. She sat beside him at the table the companions occupied, humming with a pleasant smile and reveling in every minute spent _not_ under the watchful eyes of her prudish employer. Were there a means to, she'd rid herself of her job within two snap's from Ditch's impatient fingers, but unfortunately much rode upon her occupation and the obligations weighed more heavily upon her heart than any wishful thinking. She tied her wavy black hair back into a ponytail with help from a raggedy piece of cloth, and sighed heavily while Maverick and Ditch verbally lashed at each other. 

            Would there ever be a day in which a repartee didn't engulf the two? It wasn't terribly long, though, until the topic of conversation turned back to the commonly shared hatred for life's drudgeries and the anxious desires to become adults already and move out penniless into a new world. Maverick, green serpentine eyes at their palest, downed the rest of his beverage and then sat for a time motionless in his chair. He was still dazed by his readiness in having taken Ditch up on an offer to flee from the factory and salvage whatever remnants of peace and rest they could grasp with their greedy hands, even though they hadn't been relieved from their work! He wouldn't hear the end of this from their boss for sure, seeing as he was supposed to be the more mature among his peers. 

            His dark orange hair was pulled away from his face with a piece of string, the jaw line of his face more pronounced when fine tresses didn't overhang before it. His features were those of a dedicated laborer, skin tanned from all his hours under the sun and his shoulders broad from working his body to its extremes. After a minute-long nap, which only consisted of a fleeting shut-eye, he brought up a hand to cover his yawn and then regarded the others. 

            "If we do end up gracin' the newsies with our presence this weekend," he began, lips upturned in a leer, "then we'd best decide on one thing. I'll downright clobber any a' ye who decide on provokin' 'em into a fight. We won't be stoopin' to their damned level, ye hear me? I don't care if Spot Conlon 'imself challenges ye!" 

            His followers were disgusted by the spoken name, as was manifest in their groans, mumbled curses, and pouts. Ditch was the most exasperated, for the reference to his long time nemesis awakened in him so great a revulsion that he speedily demanded no one utter the name ever again, not even in jest. "Who's Spot Conlon?" asked Patron, afterward belatedly realizing he'd broken the promise just seconds ago made; he blushed at the mistake and hoped Ditch wouldn't result to physical aggression against him. 

            Linx, luckily, stepped into the conversation before any damage was done, knowing Patron would have to be enlightened were he to socialize with them from the day onward. "Spot Conlon's the bastard in charge a' leadin' the Brooklyn newsies. He and Ditch, here, use to be the best a' friends. Would 'ave a different girl a day, they would. They even competed to see who was the better womanizer; practically inseparable, though. 'Til one day a girl came 'tween 'em and the realization that Brooklyn weren't big enough for two man whores tagged along. 

            "It weren't long 'til they came to hate each other, and the competitions turned from friendly battles to all out street fights. One night, it was Spot and Ditch alone in an alley, grapplin' to the death. Weapons were decided against to begin with, but the lil' cheat pulled out 'is slingshot last minute and flung a piece a' glass at Ditch's face, which explains the scar ya see."

            Ditch nodded gravely, his irises like dark pools into which he'd drained all of his hatred for the past, his fingers subconsciously stroking the scar on his left cheek. "Spot's the worst of all of 'em," he said slowly, venom dripping from each word. "If a fight does break out, he's _mine_." The last word came out in a low growl as he squeezed his glass of ale until the object shattered into jagged shards; he was oblivious to the specks of blood on his fingers and the pain he would've otherwise felt. 

            "And only if the newsies are in the mood for startin' somethin'. Other than that, I expect ye all to act maturely. So long as they respect our borders, we respect theirs, ay?" He received replies all in the positive, but not a single word came from Patron's lips and Maverick wasn't pleased with such indecisiveness. "Did ye not hear the query, Patron?" he asked, folding his arms onto the table and boring his gaze through the boy's guards. 

            "Actually, I highly doubt my sister would be interested in going, and I don't favor leaving her alone in our apartment at night. I'm afraid I'll have to decline the invitation." Patron didn't know whether to smile or simply uphold a serious expression; the outbursts of the others made him tremendously fearful of saying the wrong thing. 

            Ditch broke free from his inner turmoil at the mention of a sister and smirked wickedly. "Youse didn't tell me ya had a female sibling in ya household, Patron! I'd surely like to meet 'er, ya know. Maybe show 'er a few ropes…and a few bedroom games," he added under his breath, not wanting any to hear but knowing they had in any case. Patron was obviously alarmed and offended, and with good reason, but before he assumed his brotherly duties, Ditch assured him he hadn't meant any harm. 

            "So are ye comin', Patron-lad? Ya sister is welcome as well, and don't worry, we'll make sure Ditch keeps 'is hands to 'imself." He grinned with rugged merriment and draped an arm over Rebel's shoulders, trying to warm up to her after having embarrassed her so. She rolled her eyes but he wasn't aware of the rejection, nor did he seem to care. Without waiting for Patron's reply he raised up a mug of refilled mead and congratulated them on their forthcoming victory over the newsies whom they so loved to despise. 

~*~*~*~*~

A.N: Bleh! I'm not too sure this chapter was all that good. . Yes, I'm highly critical of my own work, lol. In any case, I want to get this chapter out now so I'll have to postpone shout-out's until next chapter. Thanks for all the reviews, though! It's great to get so much feedback. I usually try to give bigger parts to those who faithfully review. Next chapter is Irving Hall! W00t w00t! More of you will make an appearance and the newsies and factory boys have their first clash of the story! Anyways, until next time, PLEASE REVIEW! 

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